


Drown Me In Your Reign

by Femme (femmequixotic)



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: F/M, post-HBP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:35:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmequixotic/pseuds/Femme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, what you want may actually be what you need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drown Me In Your Reign

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2006 smutty_claus.

She supposed she'd never quite become used to palm trees at Christmas.

It was so different from her childhood, the holiday in this warm, wild paradise. Gone were the tall fir trees decked with fairy lights and all the Black family ornaments from generations back and the bright jangle of bells on the thestrals pulling Father's sleigh. Here there was no Christmas snowfall, no crisp nip to the air stinging one's cheeks and lips, no heavy fur-trimmed cloak and graceful leather boots to be donned for midnight services

Instead, Narcissa wore a thin silk shawl wrapped around nearly bare arms as she stepped out of the tiny Anglican church, the sky black above her, the humid air a harbinger of a storm brewing out on the Atlantic. The soft rumble of the ocean as it struck the rocks was a quiet, familiar background to the cheerful wishes of a happy Christmas echoing across the street in the lilting creole of the island.

Silly of her to attend, of course, but she told herself the idiot Muggles would talk otherwise and as they gossiped about the English duppie and her strange ways over fences and herb gardens far more than she would like as it was, it seemed prudent to avoid actively tossing more fodder at their feet. And if, perhaps, the comforting words of the liturgy reminded her of past services in the Black and then the Malfoy pews at St Alban's in London, that was only a secondary consideration.

Or so she told herself.

This was her second Christmas in Bathsheba. She barely remembered the first, three months after her arrival. Three months after Lucius's death.

The days had blurred by; it'd been after Hallowe'en before she managed more than a few hours out of bed a day. The pain had been far too fresh.

She'd done as Severus had told her, obeying his terse commands without thought the October night he had shown up at the Manor. There'd been nothing else to do. No protest to make. She'd been too numb. Her husband was dead, slain along with Macnair on the orders of Rufus Scrimgeour and the Wizengamot.

And Harry Potter.

It had only been a matter of time; both she and Draco had known that. He'd been on the run for four months, hiding with Severus among the Death Eaters. And when the war began to turn, the Ministry had been determined to make a point, to send a message to His Lordship and His followers. Within hours of Lucius' death, the Ministry, on Potter's recommendation, had frozen all of the Malfoy accounts and begun proceedings to take the Manor in order to fund raising the reward on the head of her son to a hundred thousand Galleons.

There had only been one place to go, and she'd not even stopped to wonder how Severus knew of it. The Malfoy property in Barbados, on the eastern shore between the rough, rocky Atlantic coastline and the steep hill sweeping down to the ocean, had been won by Lucius' great-great grandfather in a game of whist back in the days when White's still hosted a wizarding room.

It was a small house, a cottage really, two storeys on a nearly forgotten cay. Narcissa had been to it only once, spending the winter after Draco's birth there. He'd been such a sickly infant, born two months early, and the Healers had recommended a warmer climate than Wiltshire until spring.

Lucius, Severus told her, handing her odd Muggle papers and identification bearing her mother's mother's sister's name, had opened a small account under that name in the Cayman Gringotts before his imprisonment. Severus had been, at her husband's direction, funneling minute, imperceptible deposits into it over the course of the next year.

The balance was now a quarter million Galleons. And a few Knuts.

Not enough to support the Malfoy lifestyle as she was accustomed to, of course. But more than enough to keep her from starving in the gutter.

She'd transferred the money immediately, exchanging it for the ridiculous looking paper Barbadian dollars and depositing it in a Muggle bank. If nothing else, it would keep it from the Ministry's coffers, and that was all that mattered, even if she was forced to contaminate her money with that of Muggles.

Survival was far more important

Narcissa turned the path, past the shabby fa--ade of Gagg's Hill Rum Shop, the shanty's peeling red and yellow paint bright even in the moonlight, and the house was before her, white porch and balcony shadowed beneath the curve of the banana trees. Lights glittered from the second storey; a shadow moved against the curtains in the front guest room.

She stopped, her fingers automatically going to the wand tucked in her pocket. She hadn't left the lights on.

And she'd warded the cottage as heavily as was normal.

She approached carefully, her footsteps silent on the wide teak steps scuffed with years of sand and salt, her fingers curled tightly around her wand.

The door creaked open at her touch, the locking spell undone, and she could feel the wards still strong against her skin as she moved through them, as they bent to her magical signature.

It was dark and silent in the foyer and her steps were muffled by the thick burgundy wool runner as she climbed the stairs, holding her breath without thought.

Light stretched across the hallway from the guest room, door half open, and Narcissa was just reaching for the handle when it flew open, and she stood in the hallway, her wand pointed directly at Severus.

She breathed out, her shoulders slumping, her arm falling to her side. "For God's sake, Severus--"

"There wasn't time to owl," he said, pushing his hair back from his sallow face, and it was only then she saw the blood on his white shirt. It had been years since she'd seen him half-dressed, his shirt rumpled, his feet bare.

Something was wrong--

She pushed past him. Draco was on the bed, Severus' frock coat tossed over the curved footboard, and her son was far too pale, his face twisted in pain. The cuts were deep on his throat and his chest, and they'd only just begun to scab over, the blood drying and pulling the wounds together, the scabs slowly, agonizingly fading into thick pink scars. White towels were on the floor next to the bed, stained with patches of crimson. "What happened?" she asked without looking back, and Draco's eyes fluttered as she sat next to him on the bed, the mattress dipping only slightly to one side.

"A skirmish with the Order." Severus was there with a wet flannel, dabbing gently at long gash that curved across the left side of Draco's ribs that was still open, oozing blood. The Dark Lord had been defeated weeks ago; the Order was intent now on finding the remnants of the Death Eaters--purportedly for trial and imprisonment in Azkaban.

Narcissa knew better.

"Yaxley was leading us--" Severus broke off, frowning down at Draco's wounds. "Well, it's no matter now."

"Why?"

"He's dead," Draco choked out, his teeth gritted in pain. "Lupin--"

"Quiet." Severus sang something softly, almost under his breath as he dragged the cloth over the cut, and the blood began to form scabs. Draco whimpered softly; Narcissa twisted her fingers through his, her teeth catching her bottom lip.

"Potter hit Draco with a Anticoagulant Hex after a Sectumsempra," Severus said grimly, mouth tight. "Kept the wounds from knitting together properly--it's taken half an hour to coax the blood to clot." He looked over at her. "This was the safest place I could bring him. Bellatrix offered her Floo connection."

Narcissa nodded. Bella, whether out of an unusual and rather unexpected concern for her younger sister or on the Dark Lord's orders Narcissa had never discerned, had insisted on establishing an illegal, seldom-used connection to the cottage when Narcissa had first hidden herself here--a complex labyrinth of Floo hubs that bounced undetected between houses in Britain and the States before landing in Narcissa's sitting room.

The Floo journey could not have been easy for either of them.

She tightened her fingers around Draco's hand; Draco gave her a faint smile and his eyes fluttered half-open. "I'll be fine," he whispered, his mouth twisting to one side.

"I know." She kissed his cheek, brushed his hair back from his forehead.

"He needs to sleep." Severus handed Draco a phial. "Drink. It'll help with the pain. And don't argue with me this time, you damned wretch."

Draco made a face at him, but took the potion without pause, without objection. Narcissa glanced over at Severus. Something had changed; something had shifted between the two of them. Draco's anger of a year past was gone, replaced by something she wasn't entirely certain she could define.

Her son's hair was soft beneath her fingers, as silky and as pale as it had been when he was still in short trousers. He was her boy; the only thing she had left of Lucius that mattered--Nacrissa's throat tightened.

"I'll stay with him," she said, and Severus hesitated just long enough for her to raise her chin, her mouth set, and then he nodded, suddenly looking so very, very tired.

"Go sleep yourself," Narcissa said, more gently than she would have before, and Severus sighed and ran his hand across the back of his neck.

"I shouldn't." He folded the bloodstained flannel and set it on the side table next to a jar of salve.

"Oh, for God's sake," Draco snapped weakly. "If you don't sleep you're going to fall over, and the last thing I need is for you to kill me out of sleep-deprivation."

Severus glared at him. "More likely out of utter exasperation."

Draco glanced at Narcissa. "He's been up for at least a day and a half straight now."

"That's no longer than you've been awake." Severus handed Draco another phial. "I'll sleep when you do."

"I'm not the one objecting, believe me." Draco drained the phial and his hand shook only slightly when he gave it back to Severus. He yawned.

Severus slid the phial back in his pocket and looked at Narcissa. "I can stay up with him if you'd prefer--"

"He's my son," she said and Severus sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His eyes were shadowed, his cheeks gaunt.

"Reapply the dittany and almond oil twice during the night, and if he's in any discomfort, come get me. There's a charm--" Severus tried to hide his worried glance towards Draco behind a scowl and drawn eyebrows. He crossed his arms. "Just wake me."

Narcissa looked back at her son when the door closed behind Severus. Draco rubbed his knuckles over his eyes, wincing at the slight movement. "He worries."

"I can tell." Narcissa curled upon the bed next to her son, the way she had when he was ill as a boy. He rested his head on her shoulder; she ran her fingers lightly through his hair. "And you allow him."

Draco yawned again, blinking. "He tries," he murmured. "I think it's because of you--"

Narcissa tensed, and her hand stilled on his temple. "What?"

But Draco was asleep, succumbing to the potion. Narcissa lay silently, listening to the soft huff of his breath against her skin and the quiet rumble of the waves against the rocks outside.

***

Severus stared down at the water, watching the mist roll in from the Atlantic and the grey clouds gather across the mid-afternoon sky. The air was heavy and warm, a sharp contrast from the cold snowbank he'd pulled Draco from the night before.

He could still see the spread of crimson soaking across white snow.

They'd nearly taken them this time, the Order had, and the look on Potter's face when he'd seen them had chilled Severus to the bone. He wasn't a fool; he knew the power the boy could command when he wished to do so. There was a fine line between Dark Lord and Saviour--one Severus had no desire to examine.

But he'd kept his promise, kept the Vow he'd made over a year past.

For her.

The boy was all she had, he'd known that. And when she fell at his feet--at _his_ feet--and begged him to protect her child--

He'd had no other choice.

And he'd hated himself for that

He still did.

A breeze from the open window ruffled his lank hair and he reached for his shirt, mouth tight. He'd slept far too long. It was time to look in on the brat.

As always.

For her.

Severus closed his eyes.

Bloody fucking hell.

***

Draco was awake when Snape pushed the door open. Mother had gone down to begin dinner--she'd murmured something about gingered trout with mango and aubergines in coconut cream and perhaps even a pudding later on--and Draco had managed to sit up and dress in his trousers and a shirt his mother had transfigured from a linen curtain.

"How are the cuts?" Snape handed him another phial and Draco swallowed it without question.

He supposed that was idiotic of him; there was no telling what was in the phial, after all, but Snape had kept watch over him for a year and a half now and Draco had learned to trust him.

Again.

"Better." Draco wiped the back of his hand against his mouth. "Hurts like bloody fuck still."

"Watch your damned tongue." Snape capped the phial and slid it into his pocket. Draco always wondered where the phials went, if there was some strange banishing charm attached to Snape's clothing.

Draco leaned back against the pillows. "Mother's downstairs cooking."

He saw the slight flare of interest in Snape's eyes before his professor looked away. Draco wasn't surprised. He'd seen it before, when he talked of Mother, when Snape mentioned her. It'd infuriated him at first; he saw it as a betrayal of his father, but now--Draco supposed things had changed.

Or maybe it was just that he'd changed.

"I want to go down," Draco said, putting on his stubborn face. If nothing else, it'd be amusing to watch Snape flustered around Mother, and it _was_ Christmas. He deserved a bit of amusement.

Snape glanced over at him, his mouth quirking to one side. It was almost a smile. "I suppose if I refuse you'll do as you wish anyway, despite my warning."

He'd learned. Draco was oddly pleased. "Yes."

"Then I have no choice." Snape held out a hand.

Draco fingers curled comfortably around his professor's as he stood.

Funny, he thought, how such a simple touch could make you feel safe.

***

Draco had come downstairs slowly on Severus's arm, wincing the entire way, but refusing to stay in bed the whole of Christmas.

There wasn't a goose for dinner. Narcissa hadn't expected to share Christmas Day with anyone, and had only purchased a few fish for the days when market was closed. She'd not bothered with a tree or wreaths--nothing could measure to the decorations of holly and evergreens and sparkling fairies that had filled the Manor--but she'd not been able to keep herself from making a pudding.

It was her first one, made from childhood memories of watching the elves stir-up weeks before Christmas, the nurse elf Izzy nicking bits of fruit and nut from the piles on the kitchen tables for her to suck on. Andromeda and Bella had always tried to take them from her, and had had their knuckles smacked in return. Izzy had always liked Narcissa best.

Anna had given her the recipe for the pudding over tea a month ago, with a shake of her dark head and murmuring in her lilting Bajan accent, _ Not to be bad right, Cissy, but that real stupid for you to try._

Narcissa had been highly offended.

Anna was one of the few Muggles in the village not afraid to speak to her, and Narcissa had developed a strange, unsettling rapport with the other woman. Anna had lost her husband too earlier that year, drowned in a fishing accident, and she'd shown up on Narcissa's doorstep a few days after she'd first arrived with fish wrapped in newsprint and a fresh coconut.

Every week she'd come by, and every week Narcissa had sent her away with a scathing tirade. And then she'd stopped, and Narcissa had discovered that, oddly, she missed her. She'd never had a friend, not anyone other than Lucius, really. Her sisters despised her for their wildly differing reasons, and it was impossible to consider anyone in the circles in which she and Lucius had moved to be friends. Acquaintances, perhaps. Colleagues even. But never friends.

And so she gave in, found the small house up on the hill Anna lived in, and had shown up on her doorstep, with a fish and a coconut, her mouth tight, her chin lifted.

After a moment's hesitation, and a few sharp words exchanged, she had been ushered into the tiny, spotless kitchen and poured the best pot of tea she'd ever had.

Anna taught Narcissa to cook, not well--Narcissa was far too impatient--but adequately, and Narcissa helped her set up a tea shop to pull in the tourist trade. Together they had both mourned their husbands. And then in July Anna had set aside her dark, subdued dresses for bright linen shifts, twisted her black braids around her head. _A year to mourn,_ she'd told Narcissa, her dark eyes blinking back tears, her chin raised defiantly. _A year to mourn, and then you better teach yo'self to live again or you never live no more._

Narcissa had thought her foolish. Callous even. Anna had just shrugged and touched Narcissa's shoulder. _You see one day,_ she'd said gently. _When you ready._

A tap of her wand against the pudding and the brandy sparked into flame. It was smaller than their usual pudding, carried to the Manor dining room by four elves, but she'd only expected herself, not the fifteen or twenty they'd had for Christmas dinner in Wiltshire.

But it was enough for Draco, whose eyes lit up when she set it on the table in front of him. "Happy Christmas," she whispered, her mouth brushing his hair, and he'd squeezed her hand.

Draco blew the flame out, as he had every year since he was a child, and Narcissa held the knife out to Severus. "Lucius always," she started, and then her throat closed up. She looked away.

Severus's fingers were warm against her hand as he took the knife silently, and she flushed and pulled her hand away, suddenly aware of the feel of his skin against hers. She was being silly; she knew that full well. It was _Severus,_ for God's sake. She reached for her glass of wine, sipping it, willing her hand to stop shaking.

Really. If it'd been that long since she'd been touched--.Narcissa set her half-empty wineglass aside. She could still feel the press of his fingers against hers.

Severus cut the pudding with quick, elegant strokes--he was far more graceful with the knife than Lucius had ever been--and he doused each slice with caster sugar and brandy butter and passed the plates around the table.

It wasn't the same. It couldn't ever be the same.

Draco coughed, putting down his spoon nearly immediately after swallowing. "Delicious," he said, his voice muffled behind a serviette, and Narcissa narrowed her eyes at him. Her son had never been able to resist sweets.

She took a bite.

And nearly spat it out.

The pudding was bitter, too dense. Utterly unlike anything she remembered from Christmases past.

Her cheeks burned. "I--" She lifted her chin, blinking hard. Foolish of her to be upset over a _pudding._ "Well, really, there were always elves before--"

They stared silently at the ruint pudding. Somehow, Narcissa thought, it seemed a perfect symbol of the ridiculous holiday.

"Happy bloody Christmas," Severus said finally, and he poured more wine.

***

"It truly was a horrid pudding."

Draco glanced back at his mother. She was turning down his bed, smoothing her palms over the crisp white sheets. He'd missed her hands, missed the way they could calm him with just a touch. "The fish was brilliant."

"You're just saying that." She plumped up his pillows, just the way he liked them.

He rubbed his hand over his chest. The scars were pulling a bit, the flesh still knitting. They ached and they itched and if Snape saw him touching them, even through his nightshirt, he'd snap at him to stop.

Draco looked back out the window. "It's going to storm."

"I certainly hope so." Mother pushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "It's far too warm."

"Not quite Christmasy." Draco crawled into the bed, pulling the sheets up around him. They were soft and comfortable, and he suspected Mother had set a cooling charm on them.

She hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed. "It wasn't much of a holiday."

"No." Draco shifted, curling on his side. No balls, no trees, no stocking, no presents, no chocolate. Last Christmas Snape had at least found something for him to open, made certain there was a little slice of pudding. "But I'm alive, and I suppose that counts for something."

Mother tucked his hair back behind his ear. "There is that." She kissed his cheek, and he could smell the faint hint of her favourite perfume Father bought her each year in Marseilles--roses and freesia and just a touch of lemon. "But if Severus agrees you're well enough, perhaps we'll go into Bridgetown tomorrow for a bit of shopping. Presents, after all."

"I'd like that." Draco plucked at the crocheted lace along the edge of the sheet. He didn't know how to say what he was thinking. Didn't know if he wanted to say it. If he should say it.

His mother leaned her head against his pillow. "You're thinking of your father."

Draco hesitated and then nodded. "It's not the same without him."

"I know." Mother was silent for a moment. "It's not ever going to be the same, Draco. Even if we were at the Manor, if you weren't being sought--"

He let his hair fall into his eyes. They stung hotly, and he blinked hard. "It's not fair."

"No."

The ocean rumbled outside, long and slow, and he heard a seagull's screech. It was too different here. He didn't know how Mother stood it.

"I miss him," he said quietly, finally. "Snape says I probably always will."

His mother rolled onto her side. She looked strangely young lying next to him like this. She still was, he supposed. She hadn't been all _that_ much older than he was now when he'd been born. "Does he?"

Draco shrugged. "We talk sometimes. He looks after me, or he tries. He shouts a lot." He gave her a wry smile. That was a bloody understatement. "I usually shout back."

"He allows you?"

"Sometimes." It was hard to explain, really, but he trusted the professor. How could he not? Snape had always been there--even when Draco had believed him to be working against him, even when he'd been furious with him after that night on the tower. And Snape--Draco chewed his bottom lip--he knew that Snape would still be there, no matter what.

He rather liked that, he thought.

Draco smoothed his hand over the curve of the pillow. "You should go talk to him."

"Whatever for?" His mother's fingers brushed across his.

Draco was silent for a moment, and then he sighed. "You shouldn't be lonely," he said softly, almost hesitantly and Mother looked away, her cheeks flushing. "It's been over a year."

"I'm quite sure you've no idea--"

"Mother," he said, cutting her off, and her mouth tightened just enough. He knew that look, and he knew he should stop. Still. He was tired of that emptiness in her eyes every time he saw her. "It's Christmas. He shouldn't be lonely either."

"Draco," she said sharply.

"Just a glass of wine," Draco said, rolling his eyes. Really, she didn't have to be _so_ difficult about it. It wasn't as if he were telling her to--he broke off at that thought because that was just _not_ something he really wanted to consider.

Really.

She gave him a baleful look.

"For me." Draco curled his fingers around hers. "I worry about both of you, you realise. It's probably incredibly stupid of me, but I can't seem to help myself."

"Your father--"

"Would turn in his grave." Draco raised a shoulder expressively. "But he's not here, and I am, and I don't think it'd be the worst thing in the world for you to have a glass of wine with Snape on Christmas night."

He knew the moment she'd given in. It was a slight slump in her shoulders, a certain twist of her mouth. And when she stood with a frown and a murmured _this is entirely ridiculous_, he smiled up at her.

"Thank you."

She shook her head. "The first rude thing he says--"

"Hex him," Draco said solemnly.

His mother sniffed. "At the very least." She brushed her mouth across his forehead. "Sleep."

And when the door closed behind her, Draco leaned back against the pillows with a sigh. He'd done what he could. He only hoped that in whatever afterlife his father's spirit had landed, he wasn't being thrown from the Malfoy family tree.

***

"I've been sent to speak with you."

Severus looked up from the fire crackling in the sitting room hearth. It was for show more than anything; it'd been charmed not to put out any heat. "Concerning?"

Narcissa poured a glass of wine from the bottle in her hand and held it out. "Shoes and ships and sealing wax, cabbages and kings."

"And why the sea is boiling hot?" Severus asked drolly, taking the glass.

She smiled at him, a small curve of her thin lips that caught his breath. "And whether pigs have wings." She poured a glass of her own and set the bottle on a side table.

"I'd not have taken you for a reader of Carroll."

Narcissa sat on the chesterfield, curling her bare feet beneath her. "Andromeda always had an interest in Muggle things. Perhaps we ought to have expected her husband."

Severus took a sip of wine. It was rich and woodsy, with a hint of bark and berries and the slightest taste of smoke as it slid over his tongue. Not a Malfoy bottle; he'd spent enough time in the cellars with Lucius to recognise the bottles he'd enjoyed, the sweeter wines, fruity and full. This was different.

He thought perhaps he preferred it.

"What problem does the boy have now?" Severus sat on the couch, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. "Do you mind?"

Narcissa shook her head and with a flick of her wand produced an ashtray for him. "He just thought perhaps we might both be--" She hesitated for a moment, then laughed. "Lonely, I believe is how he termed it."

The spark from his wand lit the end of the cig and he inhaled slowly, breathing out a thin stream of smoke. "Lonely."

"Yes." She looked at him over the rim of her wineglass. "Ridiculous, isn't it?"

Severus rolled the cigarette between his fingers. Ash flew off the end, scattered across the wood floor. Bloody wretched interfering _brat_. "Entirely."

They sat silently for a moment, the fire crackling, casting long black shadows across the dim room. The white shutters on the windows were open, and a faint breeze sent the candles on the side tables flickering. Severus reached for the wine bottle, and poured them both another glass.

"Are you?" he asked, not looking at her. He was too aware of her sitting next to him, too aware of the way her bare toes curled into the chesterfield's cushion, too aware of the way her blonde hair was twisted into a soft chignon at the nape of her neck, long tendrils hanging down, glinting lightly in the candlelight. He took another drag on his cigarette, breathing out slowly as he tapped the end against the side of the ashtray.

She didn't answer at first, and he thought he might have overstepped his boundaries. It wouldn't be the first time. Lucius had always mocked him for his bluntness, had always told Severus how very improper his social skills were. He'd never succeed, Lucius had informed him, unless he learned how to kowtow, how to flatter and to cajole.

And now Lucius was dead, over a year now, and Severus had been the Dark Lord's right hand. Pity that His Lordship had never realised that Severus was his betrayer.

Pity even more that the damned Order had never done so either.

"They call me a duppie in the village," Narcissa said, and Severus glanced up at her. "A ghost. Sometimes I'm not certain they're wrong."

She was staring into the fire, and she looked so tired, so worn. "You miss him," Severus said, and he knew how bloody idiotic he sounded as soon as the words were out of his mouth. She sighed and raised her wineglass to her mouth again, draining it and holding it out for more.

"At times."

Severus poured another glass for her. "It's natural."

"I hate it." Narcissa swallowed half her wine. She held the glass between her fingertips, and the wine sparkled dark and as red as blood in the firelight. "It's been more than two years, if you consider Azkaban." She looked at Severus then. "You know, I've never been alone that long in my life. It was always home, and then Lucius and--" She took another sip of wine. "It's never been this long."

Severus wasn't certain what to say. He'd never been good at this sort of thing, even as Head of House. Boys were one thing--you could always make them feel foolish and weak to extract yourself from discussions of this type, but the female of the species was spectacularly beyond him.

"You find yourself used to it," he said finally. "It's not the most horrific experience in the world, being alone."

"I know." Narcissa reached for the wine bottle. He thought perhaps it might not be the best for her, but he held his tongue, choosing instead to drink his own wine.

"The worst of it," she said after a moment, leaning her head against the back of the chesterfield, "is not being touched." She sipped her wine, and a wisp of hair curled around the slender column of her throat. "Do you ever miss that?"

Severus' throat went dry. "I suppose." He twisted his glass between his fingertips. He'd no intention of telling her that he went whoring when it became too much. He stubbed his cigarette out.

"It's easier for men." Narcissa set her empty glass aside, and she looked at Severus with eyes that were a touch too bright. "No one thinks less of you when you find some girl in Knockturn. Not much for a woman--" She broke off, and her cheeks pinked. "Anyway."

He didn't know why he did it. It was idiotic, ridiculous, utterly mad. But his palm brushed her cheek, his knuckles grazed her jaw, and when she turned her head, arched her neck against the touch of his fingertips, he kissed her.

It was soft, hesitant, and he expected her to pull away, expected to feel the sharp sting of her palm against his cheek.

Instead she breathed out against his mouth, a warm huff that made his cock ache, and her fingertips slid over his throat, across his cheek.

The wineglass fell from her hand as she kissed him, her fingers tangling in his lank hair.

***

His mouth was warm and hard and eager, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him closer as he pressed her into the bed.

Narcissa had no idea how they'd made it to the bedroom, finally, their kisses rough and wanting as she stumbled on the stairs, falling loudly against the wall with a gasp muffled only by his tongue and his mouth, and his cock had been hard against her hip even then.

She twisted beneath him, and he groaned into her throat.

"Christ--" He turned his head, catching her mouth again. His tongue was heavy against hers, and she could taste the sour bite of wine and tobacco.

It'd been so long since she'd done this--since she'd tasted a man, felt the press of long, lean muscles against her curves. She threaded her fingers through his hair, feeling the slide of the heavy, lank locks against her skin.

Severus pulled away, his eyes black and glittering, his hair tumbling into his face, shadowing his cheek, his jaw. He traced a fingertip across the curve of her breast, over the soft white skin just above the smooth silken sweep of her blue dress. "Lovely," he murmured, and then his mouth was on her nipple, sucking it through the thin fabric.

Narcissa tightened her fingers on the nape of his neck. "This is mad--" He'd lost his shirt at some point--she vaguely remembered pulling at it on the stairs and she sincerely hoped that Draco'd not find it on the way down to breakfast the next morning.

His hand slid beneath her skirt, pushing the silk high up her thigh, and his fingers brushed the edge of her knickers, causing her breath to catch, her fingers to curl around his wrist, stopping him. She felt oddly like a schoolgirl, not the mother of a eighteen-year-old. But it'd been Lucius for so long, and at school there'd only been Anthony Mulciber and Julian Rookwood, and even then she'd been a brought up a Black with certain expectations and she had made certain it had been Lucius who had finally taken her virginity. Long before their wedding day, of course, but the ring had been on her finger and the banns were being called.

Severus looked down at her, waiting silently, and his hand was warm and heavy against the crease of her thigh. Narcissa traced her fingertips along the sharp angle of his jaw, down the long stretch of pale throat, and across his scarred, thin chest.

He wasn't beautiful, not like Lucius had been. He was plain, he was dark, he was dirty, he was undeniably rude, he was _Severus._

And she wanted him, God help her. Wanted this.

She met his gaze then, and it wasn't necessary to say anything; she saw the bright gleam in his dark eyes, felt the warm huff of his breath across her neck.

His fingers were hot and firm as they slid past the scrap of silk, catching on the damp curls over her slick skin, and as he circled his thumb over her clit, lightly, barely touching her, the look on his face took her breath.

Narcissa could hear the sound of the surf outside the window, the cold Atlantic breakers crashing against the boulders on the sand, ancient chunks of coral reef as high as a man's shoulder, could smell the tang of salt and the sweetness of the charmed hibiscus on the balcony, could feel the heavy mugginess of the air heralding a storm on the way.

And Severus was watching her, his hand moving slowly against the slick folds of her cunt, fingertips barely dipping between them, driving her mad with each slow, careful stroke.

Her fingers twisted in the coverlet beneath them. "Get on with it then," she said tightly and he snorted in amusement, but he pressed a finger into her, tortuously slow.

"Better?" His breath was hot against her mouth and she hated her body for its instinctive rush of pleasure as his thumb pressed against her clit, her hips bucking up, her thighs damp.

It was just sex, she told herself, a primal need, an itch to be scratched. It wasn't what it had been with Lucius, didn't need to be that any longer, wouldn't be that and it didn't matter, she could take her pleasure--and it'd been so long since she'd been touched by someone else, so long since it had been more than her own fingers splaying herself open, sliding inside herself, making her flush and gasp like this--

And then Severus pushed another finger into her, thick and wide, and she arched beneath him with a groan, her foot sliding across the coverlet, her legs falling wide open. She didn't care what he saw, didn't care what he thought of her, as long as his fingers were inside of her fucking her, as long as his mouth was on her throat, biting and sucking--she pulled at the buttons of her dress, pushing the silk aside as she grabbed her breast, rolled her nipple between her fingers.

"Narcissa," he breathed against her skin and he pushed her fingers away, covering her nipple with his mouth.

A roll of thunder echoed outside the window, and the curtains blew in, a twist of sheer white linen against the dark shadows of the room.

Narcissa arched against Severus, her hands sliding over his shoulders, groaning as he bit and sucked her breast, his tongue lapping lightly against her nipple and his hand moved between her legs, fucking her. She was a wanton, she knew, spread out on the bed beneath him, her dress askew, his mouth and hands roaming across her and her mother would be appalled. Her sisters would be appalled. She was appalled.

She wanted more.

A push of her hands against his shoulders and he was on his back, looking up at her, his eyes glazed and too bright. His hand drifted over his tented trousers, an almost imperceptible graze before he dropped it to his side, and Narcissa smiled faintly.

Men. They truly were all the same.

She slid off the bed, her dress gaping open and he leaned towards her, his hand reaching for her breast. She smacked it away. "Stay."

Severus's eyes narrowed as he raised up on one elbow. "Don't order me--"

"Stay," Narcissa said again, more firmly, and she shook the pins from her hair, letting it drift around her shoulders in long, loose waves. Severus watched her, silent, from behind a curtain of his own dark hair, and when she slid her dress off her shoulders, and it pooled on the floor at her feet, he breathed in sharply, his hand moving back to his cock.

She kicked her knickers off, and for the first time, she was entirely naked in front of a man not her husband. It was terrifying and exciting, and the way Severus looked at her, his black eyes wandering across the curves of her body, made her cunt ache the way Lucius had with one long, measured glance.

"Take off your trousers," she said, with an odd assertiveness she'd never quite had with Lucius, and she knew she wanted to be in control of this. Had to be.

Severus raised an eyebrow, but he tugged at the buttons on his trousers, pulling them open and pushing them down, his pants following quickly after, and Narcissa couldn't take her eyes off the thick swell of his cock curving against his belly or the dark hair curling over his bollocks.

Not beautiful. Not at all. He was lean and wiry, and covered in scars and dark hair, and his hair was filthy and--there were a thousand reasons why she shouldn't want him, shouldn't touch him, shouldn't--

He groaned when she took him in her mouth. He tasted sharp and bitter and salty and just sweet enough, and she slid down further, her hair falling over his hipbones, and when she curled her tongue around him just so his hips bucked up, nearly knocking her backwards.

"Fuck," he whispered, and his hands smoothed lightly over her hair. "Do you know how I've wanted--" He broke off with a gasp as she ran a thumb over his sack, sliding it underneath and stroking the soft skin. "I want to fuck your throat," he choked out, and he pressed upwards, gently, but enough to slide further into her mouth, and she sucked him, enjoying the soft cry that he gave as he arched against the bed.

Narcissa pulled away. Severus' cock was heavy and wet and she wanted it in her. Needed it in her. She slid up his body, cutting off his protest with a kiss, letting him taste himself on her tongue, and his hand slid down her back, fingers tight on her hip.

"It's not my throat I want fucked, Severus," she said against his mouth, and he groaned and kissed her roughly, his teeth catching her lip.

She slid onto him, taking him in slowly, and his eyes widened, his breath caught as she spread her knees, letting him watch as his cock pressed into her.

Severus stretched her, filled her, and it felt amazing--so much better than her wand had been for the past two years. She'd missed this, missed having a man's cock in her, missed having hands skimming over her skin, caressing her breasts. She rocked forward, sliding down further onto him, and his fingers dug into her hips just before he flipped her over, pressing her into the mattress.

"I think I'd much rather fuck your cunt, then," he whispered, biting at her jaw, and Narcissa arched her neck and gasped as he thrust into her, his hand sliding beneath her thigh, pushing her leg up.

He was deep inside of her, and she grabbed at his shoulders, her fingers skidding across his damp skin, and lightning lit up the room, a flash of brightness that washed over Severus's pale skin, highlighting a long scar which curved over one shoulder.

"More," she choked out, and he slammed into her again, lifting her hips from the bed. His hair swung forward, caught on the corner of his mouth, and she wrapped a leg around his hips, pulling him closer as she rocked into his thrust.

They moved together, skin slick and hot, breath coming in gasps and groans, and her breasts were pressed against his chest, her mouth was on his throat. This was what she needed, what she'd wanted, to be touched, to be fucked, and the thought that it was Severus doing this to her, Severus inside of her, Severus making her want and need and--oh, _Christ._

He fucked her harder, urged on by her sharp, short cries, by her fingers digging into his back, into his hips, and it was almost too much, almost not enough, until he pulled her up, over his shaking thighs, slamming her against the headboard as he thrust into her again and again until finally she tensed, the world holding for the minutest fraction of a moment, for a breath, for a heartbeat before exploding around her in a rush of hot pleasure.

He threw his head back, his hips moving against hers erratically, pressing her into the carved headboard, and she didn't care that it hurt. "Severus," she whispered, and she held onto him as he fucked her roughly, and he came with a cry, his head thrown back, his eyes closed.

He was beautiful.

They lay silently in the bed, the coverlet twisted beneath them, pillows cast aside. She could hear his heartbeat, could feel his breath against her temple. And when he shifted, pulled out of her, rolling to one side, she felt oddly empty. Alone.

He'd go now. Of course. That's the way it should be, anyway. It was just sex, after all.

And then Severus pulled her closer, one arm wrapped around her waist. "Sleep," he murmured, and she was suddenly tired, aching.

"I'm not--"

"Don't be an idiot," he said against her hair, and he pulled the coverlet over them. "Sleep."

The wind blew a shutter closed with a sharp, loud bang, and the rain poured off the eaves, rattling against the banana leaves, and the roll of thunder mixed with the quiet roar of waves.

Narcissa closed her eyes and slept.

***

He woke to the sound of the shower.

Early morning light filled the room, filtered through the white curtains at the windows. The air was crisp, washed clean by the storm.

Severus rolled over. The sheets beneath him were damp still and stank of sex and his last encounter with Narcissa, when the sky had just begun to turn from black to a dark, velvety blue. She had woken him, her hand on his cock, stroking lightly, and Severus had pulled her over his chest, his hands cupping her breasts as she fucked him.

He sat up, running a hand over his face. This was madness. They'd had too much wine was all. She'd regret it. They always did, except the ones he paid, and he'd taken to that more often over the years. It was easier with a whore. Simpler. Sex was a business transaction; there were never any messy emotions. Just the search for physical release.

Far more preferable, he thought, with the complete knowledge he was lying to himself.

Severus slid off the bed, crossing to the bath. Steam rolled out as he pushed the door open. Bloody well explained from where Draco's adoration of bathing had come.

Narcissa was in the shower, her back to him, and the water poured from the ceiling in sheets, splashing around her feet. Her hair hung to her waist, wet and blonde, and Severus stared at the rivulets of water that ran down her spine, curving over her arse.

She had a beautiful arse. Full and round and smooth and pale--Severus knew he should look away. He had no right, despite last night--she was still Lucius' widow--and then she turned and stretched, just enough for him to glimpse the side of her tit, and his breath caught.

He couldn't stop himself--wouldn't, even if he'd wanted to. The water was warm on his skin, dampening his hair, and she turned towards him with a gasp.

And then she smiled.

"I'm not used to being joined," she said with a nervous laugh, and her cheeks were flushed, though Severus supposed that could be from the heat of the shower as much as his presence.

"You shouldn't leave the door unwarded." His hand was on her tit, palm smoothing over her nipple, and he pressed her against the tile. He wanted her again, and he rubbed his cock against her thigh. She raised an eyebrow, a perfect mirror of an expression he'd seen on her son's face more than once.

"Again?"

He shrugged. "Call me inspired," he murmured before capturing her mouth with his.

The water cascaded across his shoulders as he pressed her to the shower wall, slid to his knees, his hands trailing down her body.

"Severus," she whispered, and then her voice hitched as he rubbed his face against her wet curls, breathing her in.

He loved her smell. Loved the scent of himself lingering on her cunt.

All those nights thinking of this, his hand moving roughly over his cock as he imagined what she would feel like, how she would taste. The guilt--the way he'd been unable to look Lucius in the eye some days, knowing what his fantasies had been just hours before.

She didn't belong to him. Perhaps never would. But for now--he licked at her clit, felt her thighs tremble beneath his hands, heard her breath catch as his tongue slid through her folds--for now, he could taste her and touch her and fuck her--

He pulled at Narcissa, tugging her down the wet tile, and the warm water poured over them like a soft rain, and she slid over his thighs, kissing him as she straddled him. She dragged her mouth over his jaw, nipping along the sharp angle, and her breasts rubbed against his chest.

"I want you," he murmured into her wet hair.

Narcissa laughed softly, and her hands trailed over his shoulders. "I'd never have known."

"Bint." He smiled against her skin. "This is mad, you realise."

"Utterly." She rocked her hips forward, pressing her belly against his cock.

He groaned and he pulled away, just enough. The head of his cock rubbed against her hip. Her mouth was wet, her skin slick; tiny drops of water hung for a fraction of a moment off the tips of her eyelashes before dropping, running in tiny rivulets down her pale cheeks. "What are we doing?" he whispered, and he smoothed a thumb over her temple. "What is this?"

Narcissa just looked at him, and he saw the confusion in her eyes. "Does it matter?" she asked finally.

"Lucius--"

She cut him off with a kiss, rough and hard, and when she pulled away, her eyes were bright. "Is dead." She looked away then, and her jaw tightened. "I'm tired of being alone."

"And I'm here." He felt a surge of frustration, of bitterness. Of course. It couldn't be anything else.

Narcissa touched his face, ran her fingertips over his mouth. "You've always been here." She rested her forehead against his. "I need it just to be this right now, Severus," she said quietly. "Whatever it may or may not be later, for now--" She trailed off. "I need this," she whispered. "You."

Perhaps that was enough.

For now.

He kissed her, pressing her back against the tile, and his cock slid into her, just enough to make her gasp, make her head fall back, her eyes close. "Then tell me to fuck you," he said against her throat.

"I don't know why you're not already." Her hands trailed over his arms, settled on his shoulders. "Please, Severus."

Severus bit her jaw with a groan.

Never let it be said he would deny a Malfoy anything.

***

Draco poured a cup of Earl Grey and carried it out to the porch. A breeze ruffled the leaves of the banana trees in the side garden; he could hear the shouts of children playing down the beach, the echoes of steel drums beating out carols along High Street.

It was late, far past breakfast and quite close to lunch, and he was the only one awake, it seemed. He didn't particularly want to think of why that might be; there were some things about one's parents that were better left unknown.

Particularly after finding a familiar shirt abandoned on the staircase and a wineglass shattered on the sitting room floor. He rather hoped Mother knew a charm to lift wine stains from upholstery.

The tea was hot and sweet, the bergamot tart on his tongue. He wasn't entirely certain when over the past year Snape had become a parental figure. He supposed he should be disconcerted by that realisation. But he was eighteen--almost nineteen now--and perhaps he'd learned things, running for his life the past two years.

The constant threat of death tended to put things in perspective after all. And perhaps there was a certain selfishness to his wish.

Snape would never replace Father, he knew that. No one could. Draco would never wish anyone to. Father was Father and he always would be.

Family was important. But sometimes, he supposed, family was more than you expected it to be, and you woke up one morning and realised that perhaps you weren't entirely uncomfortable with that thought anymore.

He heard his mother's laugh from inside--a bright, happy trill that he'd not heard for years now.

Draco smiled into his tea and leaned back in his chair.

The sun glinted off the waves rolling up to the boulder-strewn sand, filling the deep tidal pools and seagulls swept through the sky.

Perhaps, he thought, resting his bare feet on the porch railing, this island wasn't so terribly unbearable after all.


End file.
